Altared Consciousness Everything Must Change

“Everyone will change. Everything will change” ~lyrics by Benard Ighner, sung by George Benson

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Over fifty years ago, in the soil of a potted plant on a rooftop in Mexico City, my abuelita Emma found a four leaf clover. Lita placed it between two sheets of hard plastic; stapled and sealed the edges with clear tape and mailed it to my family in California. The clover was a soft, pale green color, about the size of my preschool palm. I was told that it was good luck. It was good luck that she had found it. And good luck delivered it to our home. Too soon I wondered if her own luck would have been better, had it stayed with her in Mexico. 

The clover was kept in a drawer of photographs and other family mementos. After my abuelita’s death in 1972, I would open that drawer often to look at it. And although the clover became smaller in my hands as time passed, its importance as a gift from Lita, something that she had held in her own hands, grew each year. 

When I left for college, I took it with me. Unless I was using it as a bookmark, it sat on a shelf near my head while I slept. Even though it was a treasured object, it took a few years to notice that the color was fading and mildew had found its way between the thin sheets of plastic. 

Hoping to prevent further deterioration, I gently removed it from its original container and placed it between thick sheets of plexi-glass, securing it tightly with picture frame clips. It was displayed away from direct sunlight and potential dampness. Nevertheless, light and moisture still found its way to the clover and each year it became more faded and damaged. Returning it to the darkness of a drawer wasn’t an option. But at some point it would need a new place, a better home to rest.

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“Once we know the source of our helplessness, we are free to begin the coping process.” ~Pauline Boss 

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About thirty years later, I was standing in the Faulkner Gallery, looking at an extraordinary example of handmade paper, embedded with inclusions of flowers: some that had been gently dried and some made from tissue paper. Well crafted and beautiful, it made me smile. The artist was Barbara Booth of Pedaling Paper. I had met Barbara the year before and had a deep appreciation for her handmade stationery, created in the loving memory of her daughter. I was familiar with the papermaking process and wondered if Barbara could be commissioned to make a sheet of paper that included the clover. As I gathered my courage to ask her, the events of 2020 unfolded. With reluctance, the clover was soon packed away in a box with other beloved objects, as I prepared to find myself a new home. 

Eventually a home was found, boxes were unpacked and I had an opportunity to speak with Barbara about the clover. She was touched that I trusted her with such a personal project, but knowing how much the clover meant to me, Barbara declined. Aware of my previous papermaking experience, she suggested that I give it a try. For a moment I considered it, then realized how unprepared I was to make it happen. I surrendered to the possibility that it would continue to fade away where it was, indefinitely. 

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“Nature, time and patience are three great physicians.” ~Henry George Bohn 

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Last year, when Barbara announced that she would be offering a papermaking workshop, I signed up quickly. My intent was to reacquaint myself with the process and determine if it was even possible to add the clover to paper pulp. By the end of that day, it not only seemed possible; it seemed inevitable. Months later on a September  morning, I pedaled to another papermaking workshop with the clover. 

A decade earlier, I had attempted to remove the clover from its plexi-glass home, to place it in a decorative frame. In the process it had been torn and tiny bits floated into the air as I gasped. The experience was quietly traumatic; so much so that I have no memory of putting the remaining bits back into place between the plexi-glass sheets nor securing the picture frame clips. Somehow, I managed it. With this in mind, I filled the papermaking mold with indigo dyed paper pulp. As I added the dry marigold petals, I realized how difficult it was going to be, to add the pieces of the clover, in a way that maintained its original shape. I fussed with the marigold petals, guiding them to the edge of the mold to create a frame. With the petals finally in place, it was time to add the clover. 

As I slowly removed the top sheet of plexi-glass, I was relieved that the clover had stuck to the bottom sheet. The challenge was to remove it without tearing it more. With care I used my fingernail like a spatula and managed to lift the stem and the tissue thin leaves from the plastic and added them to the water. As expected, the surface tension kept the clover pieces from touching one another. Reminding myself to breathe, I decided to nudge the pieces together by layering bits of paper pulp on top of them. The weight of the pulp anchored the parts in place, by slowly submerging them under the water. Moments later the clover was completely covered by a thin blanket of pulp. 

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“This body is not you. This is the dissolution of the element of earth as it sinks into water and form unbinds into feelings.” ~ Joan Halifax Roshi, from the Meditation: Dissolution of the Body At Death 

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Barbara had been standing nearby as I lifted the mold from the tub like an infant from its first bath. She guided me through the final steps of the papermaking process; how to remove the excess moisture with layers of ‘couching’ sheets. When it was time to reveal the newly formed paper, we gathered in anticipation, and I removed the top couching sheet. The marigold petals delicately framed the light blue pulp. I turned it over expecting to see the clover peeking through on the other side. But it wasn’t there. Confused, I blurted “She’s gone!” as my eyes filled with tears. With a comforting hug, Barbara reassured me, “She’s still here.” 

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"What was lost forever and what was still there?" ~Pauline Boss 

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Over fifty years ago, a tiny seed stretched its roots into the soil of a potted plant on a rooftop in Mexico City. Standing tall in an improbable landscape, the four leaf clover was discovered by my abuelita and sent thousands of miles away with wishes of good luck. When I held it in my small hands, I could not have imagined how much farther the clover would travel with me nor how its transformation would affect me. Once again it sits by my head while I sleep, a reminder of a bond that cannot be broken, no matter how it takes shape.

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"This moment is complete, just as it is; I am complete, just as I am; things are whole and fine, just as they are." ~Pema Chodron 

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Look What happens with a love like that, It lights the whole sky. ~Hafiz 

Meet the Author 

Rebecca Zendejas has had a lifelong fascination with places of worship and the 

creation of sacred space within daily routines. Inspired by the celebrations of 

Samhain and Dias de los Muertos, in October of 2020 she created a Community 

Memorial Altar at Paradise Found. The public was invited to add the names of 

departed loved ones to the altar. In the years that have followed, it has become a 

beloved autumn ritual. As an artist and woodworker, Rebecca designs and creates 

one of a kind altars for the home, office and community spaces. She can be found 

on Instagram @zendohous or contacted by email: zendohous@gmail.com.

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